Soft
by lesqui
Summary: When Draco makes the split-second decision to escape the Manor and the Dark Lord's clutches with the Golden Trio, he has to come to terms with his actions, past and present. Shattered souls and broken minds heal together, because the only dirt in her blood was sand from the beach.
1. Chapter 1

_My first (and, for now, solitary) Harry Potter fic. It'll be short and sweet, but it is dark and covers dark themes (I mean, we all read that last book and caught all the underlying messages)._

 _It is a Dramione, because that pairing fascinates me for some reason. *shrugs totally unapologetically*_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **Soft**

 **Chapter One**

He had followed them.

When they escaped the Manor. He had leapt at the whorl of disappearing people, leapt through the enraged shriek of his aunt and silent reaches of his mother. He had latched on as the final pull took them over, and he had landed on damp sand.

There was screaming, maybe, and crying, and someone was crawling towards him.

Crying. 'Dobby, Dobby,' repeated over and over, like a mantra. Dobby. He knew Dobby. The elf his father had tortured.

The elf that had snuck him extra sweets late at night. Had taught his mother how to make hot cocoa when he asked her for it as a child after reading about it.

Screaming. No. No screaming. It had stopped. Maybe it hadn't even been here.

With him. In the damp sand and watery grey sunlight and salt water that washed around him.

Someone was crawling towards him.

"Malfoy," nothing more than a strangled gasp. He blinked. Brown hair that should have been bushy, but was matted down with blood and dirt and salt water.

Blood. Blood.

It was brown now. Dried. What should have been wet and crimson-red was mixed with the brown sand. Dirty.

Dirty.

No.

On the floor, the dark floor of the manor, it had been clean. Crimson. His aunt had shrieked her gleeful laughter. Granger had screamed and choked on a sob.

Her body had flopped, her head had bounced. Blood.

"Malfoy," the blood on her hand was dried. Not mixed with sand. Just blood.

Red. Brown, dried brown. But red when wet. Like his.

"Malfoy." His name, three times, and he moved suddenly, gripping her arm and pulling her closer.

She was real. Yes. He had actually done that. He had—

Run.

Leapt.

 _Escaped._

Something hysterical bubbled within him.

"Granger, Granger, Granger," it joined the litany of 'Dobby, Dobby, Dobby,' and from the house on the hill he hadn't noticed, someone came to help him the rest of the way to safety.

###

He didn't have a room. The little house was too small, and one room went to Ollivander, one to Lovegood and Granger, one to Potter and Weasley, one to the goblin, and one to the owners of the house.

Thomas was left in the living room with him.

He'd stared.

Draco stared back.

"You came with us."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Draco looked at his hands. Blood. Dried. Granger's blood. His skin itched suddenly. "I don't know." He hadn't had a chance to clean yet. Two bathrooms. One was for Ollivander and Lovegood, the other for treating Granger's injuries.

The Mark on his arm burned. He flinched and Thomas looked at the tattoo surrounded by raised skin a blazing, angry red.

"Why didn't you help her?"

"I don't know."

That wasn't satisfactory for either of them. Thomas was frail after imprisonment and being beaten during the journey to the manor, but he still found the strength to glower.

"What do you know?"

There it was again. Hysteria. Bubbling in him. They would probably kill him. Use him for his information, first, then kill him.

"I'm dead."

Thomas didn't quite meet his gaze. Looked at the wall behind his shoulder. "You're not."

"I am. My mother. He'll kill my mother. Torture her first. I'm hunted now. This side won't trust me. I've killed. They'll get the information I know. I'll tell them. Everything. Everything." Another litany. "Everything, everything, everything."

Maybe it was his hysteria that started Thomas off. First pacing. His fists clenching, and then he was in front of Draco, grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him off the sofa. He hit the floor hard, shoulder catching on the edge of the coffee table.

"You're not dead!"

"I should be!"

"Fuck's sake, Malfoy, Hermione's torture is your fault!"

"I know, I know, I know," he stayed in that awkward, fallen position on the floor, gazing trailing over the details of the wood.

Wood, like the floor in the manor. This wood was better. Her blood wasn't soaked into it.

Thomas resumed his pacing. "She might _die!_ "

Draco traced a finger along a crack in the wood. "Red."

Thomas paused. "What?"

"Red. Her blood is red. Like mine. It dries brown. Like mine. It was dirty with sand from the beach. That's the only dirt. Sand on the beach."

The other man crouched above him uncertainly. Draco kept his eyes on the floor. "You came with us."

"Yes." He traced another crack. "The elf is dead. I saw. He made me hot cocoa."

"You came with us."

"Yes."

He wasn't sure who started crying first. Maybe they had been crying the whole time. Thomas, when realizing Draco wouldn't move himself, rolled him into a more suitable position. The weight of someone curled on him was unfamiliar. Draco didn't fight it.

There had been rumors at school, Thomas and Finnegan.

Draco didn't care. Not anymore.

Weight. Weight. He wasn't alone. Thomas was there. Curled on top him, around him. In just as much shock as him.

"You came with us."

"Yes."

Bill found them that way, shivering on the floor, Draco covered in dried blood and Dean curled around him. "One of the bathrooms is open."

Thomas offered to let Draco go first, to get rid of the blood. Draco shook his head and pulled the other man with him. Bill murmured, soft and quiet and gentle, that food would be ready when they wanted, and he was glad Thomas was safe, and—he hesitated—if it was okay with Draco, he'd speak with him privately later about what happened, or maybe, if Draco preferred, Fleur would.

Draco nodded, in a shocked daze.

Bill had called him Draco.

Thomas was willing to shower with him.

He was alive. Alive. _Alive._

 _Escaped._

###

He had chosen Bill to speak with. Fleur was beautiful, and surprisingly kind, and his Mark kept burning and despite the fact that Thomas had carefully scrubbed all the blood from beneath his nails, he felt unbearably filthy.

Bill had seen war.

Fleur had, had—she was beautiful and kind and he wouldn't show her his war.

They sat in silence on the front steps of the house. The ocean below flowed soothingly. Draco watched the waves. Sometimes he thought he could see a pattern.

"I went with them."

Bill nodded. "Yes."

"I don't know why."

"That's okay."

Draco's fingers dug into the steps beneath him. "Her blood is red."

Bill knew what he was talking about. "Yes."

"They'll kill my mother."

"She might escape."

Draco scoffed and felt something in his chest break. "She's not that powerful."

"Never," Bill's voice had changed, softened, hardened, and Draco looked at him. A fire burned in his eyes, "Doubt the power of the women you love."

"Woman. One." Draco's Mark burned again and he didn't bother to stifle his flinch. "Only one."

Bill let him set in silence. Bill was good, Draco decided. A red-headed Weasley, but a good one. He let a man to his thoughts. Let a man to his thoughts, but didn't let him drown in them.

"Tell me what happened."

Draco shook his head. He didn't want to. Didn't want to hear those screams or see that blood or ' _Crucio'_ and ' _I don't know, I don't know.'_

Or the knife. And more screaming. And the blood trailing down her arm in small rivulets. _Mudblood._

No. No. It was sand. The only dirt was sand.

But Bill was patient, and the ocean was soothing, and his Mark finally stopped burning. "They were caught. By Snatchers." His voice was not as emotionless as he would have liked, but didn't hold as much emotion as it should have. "And there was a sword. And my—my—" he choked on the word. She wasn't family, not anymore. "Bellatrix thought something. She took Granger and—and—"

He choked again, and warm fingers enveloped his arm, digging painfully into his Mark. It was that touch, maybe, that cleared his throat and his thoughts and let him continue.

"Granger was tortured. The Cruciatus curse. And something else. I don't know them. And a knife. A cursed blade that will scar. Trauma, physical. She hit the floor a few times. Blood." He stopped, breathing deeply, not seeming able to take any air in.

Those fingers squeezed again. He could breathe. "There was blood. It's all over the manor floor. It was—it was," he could do this. He would say this. "Red. Like mine. I'd never seen her bleed."

Bill gave him another squeeze. "But you had seen other Muggle-borns and Muggles bleed." It wasn't a question. It wasn't condemning, either.

"Yes."

"Why was this different?"

"I don't—I think because I knew her. I grew up with Granger, in a way. It was personal. I think. I don't know." _I don't know, I don't know._

Bill pulled him closer. "It's okay."

"It's not."

"It is. You chose."

Yes. He had. Draco had chosen. Something shuddered through him and salt hit his tongue. He hadn't known ocean spray could travel so far.

It was only when Bill pulled him close, pulled him against his chest, that he realized he was crying again. Not just crying. Sobbing. His mind had broken, his spirit, too, perhaps.

He cried for all he'd done and all he hadn't, and Bill held him, stroking his hair as if he were a child. As if he hadn't tortured and hadn't killed.

The Mark started burning again and Draco flinched. Bill tightened his hold and squeezed again, so hard, so tight that pain overtook the one of the burn.

 _Alive. Chose._

 _Escaped._

Thomas joined them on the steps and curled against his other side.

Safe.

* * *

 _So, for those that don't know, my speciality when it comes to fics is Star Wars: The Clone Wars, and many of the ones I've read (and written that will never see light of day) have to do with the psychological affects of war and how that can, not to be redundant, shatter someone._

 _But they also have to do with healing, and since that's what I'm good at writing about, that's what this fic turned into. *another shrug and slightly sheepish and hopeful smile*_

 _Please let me know what you think. I appreciate all reviews: the raving fans, and the constructive criticism._

 _Lots of love and kisses!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Soft**

 **Chapter Two**

Breakfast with Hermione Granger became the favorite part of Draco's day.

They were both up before everyone else. She couldn't sleep and he didn't want to. Sleep was no longer the dark safety it had once been.

The first time, it had been tense. She had stared and he had tried not to. Then she held up her forearm. The word _Mudblood_ was carved brutally into the flesh, and Draco flinched back. Bile burned the back of his throat and he turned his head away.

"Look." Her voice was soft. Hoarse and soft and as hard as songsteel. " _Look._ "

He did. His hands trembled. His knees buckled. She watched him fall to the floor. He knelt, bowed over his own legs. Not once did she move to help.

Bowing before a Muggle-born. His father would have killed him on sight. His mother—it hurt to think of her.

But Hermione Granger deserved his submission, deserved him on his knees before her. It would be a long road of repentance; he was willing to start here.

He didn't apologize and she didn't expect him to. Instead, she watched. And studied. Brown eyes calculating and clinical with a cold fire simmering low in them.

"Get up."

He did.

"Let me see." She didn't need to elaborate.

He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the marred skin, still red and inflamed and painful to touch. It hadn't stopped him. Deep scratch marks made uglier what already was. She was staring again, for so long he felt the need to fidget.

"You were unwilling." Finally, those brown eyes met his own silver.

He tugged his sleeve down. "So were you."

She was still for so long worry tingled down his spine. Then she turned away, moving towards the pantry. "Do you know how to cook?"

"No."

"Will you learn?"

"Yes."

It was the beginning of their breakfast ritual. Maybe the road of repentance wouldn't be as painful as it would be informative.

He'd told her the truth. He was willing to learn.

More than that, he was willing to learn from her.

Maybe he even wanted to.

###

The second time wasn't the next morning. Nor the morning after that.

Draco couldn't. He needed to think and focus and try and sort through the thoughts jumbled in his head. He had bowed before her. Her blood was red. He had _bowed._

It took him three days to firmly decide he didn't regret it.

Another two days for him to reappear in the kitchen so early in the morning.

The sky was still dark, the first whispers of golden light creeping above the horizon. A few low-hanging clouds caught it and turned pink. Her face glowed faintly in the blossoming dawn. She didn't look at him.

"Get the eggs."

He did.

"And the flour."

He did that, too.

"Milk."

"Salt."

She still didn't look at him as he placed the last two requested ingredients on the table beside her. He lingered behind her—hovered, more like. Awkward and struggling, wanting to help, _needing_ to help, and not sure how.

She solved that for him. "Get a bowl. Mix the flour and salt."

He knew how to do this, how to follow orders. He could follow hers. He was willing to.

They worked in relative silence. Occasionally she'd direct him. Silently he'd follow. She told, he did.

The second breakfast was three egg pancakes, enough to feed the multiple occupants of the house, and they ate their pieces with jam and honey and silence softening from uncomfortable to unsure.

When they were done, she slipped through the doorway, as silent and fluttering as a morning shadow. He was left with the dishes from their cooking and eating. Maybe once he would have minded. He might have thrown a fit. He could remember those days, but they were hazy and blurry.

Fragments of a broken dream buried in his shattered mind.

Now, though, he simply moved quietly through the kitchen, cleaning and washing and drying. It was almost soothing, the methodical movements gentle and simple and nothing he'd ever done before.

Learning. He was learning, and he was willing to.

Repentance so far had been bowing and cooking and now washing.

It wasn't so bad. Parts of it dulcified his splintered soul.

###

He didn't speak until their seventh breakfast. Never once did she initiate conversation, hardly ever was he brave enough to.

Until their seventh breakfast. Seven was a powerful number in magic. Ancient magic held it in prestige. Maybe it was what gave him the courage.

She wasn't looking at him. She hadn't since that first breakfast. He didn't bother to catch her attention.

"Is there hot chocolate?"

Her movements stuttered then quickened. There was no answer for one minute, and then another, and something small and hopeful in him deflated with defeat.

"Pantry." Quiet and hard, same as if she had given him an order.

He stood, moving carefully around her. As she'd said, a small tin of powder was nestled in the far back corner of the pantry. It was tucked away, almost hidden, and how she'd known it was even there was beyond him.

Then he felt something like that hysterical laughter again. Of course she knew it was there. She was Hermione Granger.

He paused in the doorway of the pantry, clutching the tin. Hermione Granger was barely ten feet away from him making breakfast. Making him breakfast. Making breakfast to eat with him. His fingers trembled against the tin and he clenched so tightly his fingers turned white.

It took a moment for the hysteria to pass. Not pass, no. It was still there. He just had better control over it.

Sure of his movements once more, he pulled the milk from the refrigerator and mixed in the powder. Another thing methodical and soothing. Memories came with it, though, of Dobby, of his mother, of dark wood floors and high arching ceilings, and blood and screams and—

"I need the milk."

Draco's eyes slowly moved away from his cup to the woman using the other end of the table for her breakfast mixture. Why he'd expected her to be looking, he didn't know.

She wasn't.

But he obediently slid her the milk.

Breakfast that morning was good, better than the others. He thought about telling her as much.

Her back to him made him decide against it.

She left him to clean again, but that was okay. Methodical, soothing, learning, willing.

It was early afternoon when he realized making chocolate milk was the first thing he'd done in the kitchen without her direction.

For some reason, that felt like an accomplishment.

###

It was the fourteenth breakfast when she spoke to him for more than just orders.

Hot chocolate had become his staple breakfast drink. It held memories, yes, but it also held comfort.

But not this morning.

He had barely taken a step through the doorway.

"We're out of powder." He started at her voice not giving him an order. She was carefully cutting a sausage, and didn't once look at him. When he didn't respond, she elaborated. "The hot cocoa powder."

"Oh," because what else could he say? But, but, but maybe she was trying for conversation. Maybe he could try, too. "Should I tell someone?" His voice trailed into silence. She still didn't look at him.

"Yes."

"Okay."

And that was it. But it was also a—

A growth from her. Yes, that's what it was. He was willing to learn, and she was willing to—

To be more than just silence around him.

Progress.

Repentance.

He wondered, distantly, if she had a type of repentance she was serving, too. He wondered if her mind was as broken as his.

"Can you cook the sausage today?" Another question, more words that didn't need to be said.

Yes, she was trying.

It made something warm flutter in him.

"Yes."

She moved aside, making room for him. "Thank you."

 _Thank you,_ it almost made him stop. No one had thanked him for anything in his memory. Hermione Granger had willingly, sincerely. While sharing words they didn't need to, but she had anyways.

The rest of the morning was in silence. He cooked the sausage as she had taught him, without magic and with patience. The kitchen smelled spicy and the warm something fluttering in him fluttered a bit harder.

He saw, from the corner of his eye, that she was standing closer than she ever had before.

Progress.

###

Their twenty-first morning making breakfast in that soft golden light was when she finally looked at him.

She hadn't since the very first morning. It had been weeks now. He'd forgotten what color her eyes were. Logically, he knew they were brown. But eye colors could be so versatile.

The color of mud, he used to think. Proper mud color for the Mudblood.

His mind recoiled at that thought now.

Fleur had gotten him more hot cocoa powder. Granger had to have been the on to tell her; he hadn't.

Unless someone else was drinking it.

He didn't think that was happening.

A kindness from her, then. More progress.

It had become habit now for him to make his hot chocolate first, and then help her with cutting up the meat or the vegetables for the breakfast. He'd cook while she baked the bread or made the pancakes or any other thing she felt went with their morning meal.

There was conversation, too. Sometimes. Halting and awkward, but not painful.

He started it this morning. "I think your breakfasts are the best."

"They're not."

"I think so."

"You think wrong." It was almost…banter.

Almost friendly.

Warm fluttered in his chest.

"It's rude to tell someone their thoughts are wrong."

She didn't respond for a long minute, and Draco deflated again. Progress, but sometimes progress was painfully slow.

"You can try to show them." Her voice was closer than it'd been before. He looked at her; _she_ was closer, using the burner nearest him.

Progress. She could have chosen any others to use. The warm fluttered again.

She didn't look, but she didn't tense under his gaze. She hadn't flinched; never had flinched. Maybe that's what had given him hope.

She never flinched.

"I suppose," his voice was a low drawl, so similar to his past. But maybe her lips twitched upwards slightly, it was hard to tell.

"Do you think, Malfoy, I can change your mind?"

There was a pause then, in everything. In the world spinning, the birds chirping, the food sizzling in the pan.

In his breathing.

Maybe even in hers.

"I think," he choked on the words, not because they were hard to say, but because he didn't know how, "that I would like you to try."

They both knew he wasn't talking about breakfasts. She still didn't look at him, but her head tilted in an almost thoughtful way before dipping in a small nod.

Everything unpaused then, and he could breathe.

"I think," she moved aside so he could take over cooking, "that I would like to try."

An arm reached out to grab a spatula. The word carved into her flesh gleamed in the morning light. He tried not to stare.

She was willing to try. Like him.

Of course, that had been conveyed, but now they said it out loud. Now, it was official.

Warm started fluttering again. Warm and something else, and when he glanced up, she was looking at him.

He thought the world had stopped again, until he realized he had simply forgotten to breathe. Not the color of mud at all. Rather, they were hot cocoa and morning-gold sun blended together.

Hard and calculating and sharp with barely contained brilliance.

Draco wondered if her friends saw what he did in that brown; if they saw the biting edge that she kept well tied-down, if they knew just what she was capable of.

Not that he knew, but he was suddenly painfully eager to find out.

No, no mud.

Red and gold, and brilliance.

The moment was more than fleeting but less than lasting, and gone in barely a second. She returned to her mixing, he to his cooking, and a soft breath loosened his chest.

Utterly, wonderfully, terrifyingly brilliant.

Someone he was willing to learn from.

* * *

 _See, not too sad :)_

 _Read, review._

 _Kisses!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

One morning breakfast was different. The conversation that had been growing between them wasn't there. She didn't look at him; purposely, with steadfast intention. Draco felt the fluttering and the warm hope begin to shrivel.

He had thought he was doing good. Had thought he was a good student, was good at learning to cook and learning to serve and learning to—

Think.

But now she wouldn't look at him. She wouldn't look at him, but she still used the burner closest to him, and when his arm brushed hers accidentally while reaching for the milk, she didn't flinch.

She'd never flinched, though, so that wasn't much to go by.

It was only when breakfast was made, when they'd served their plates and his mug of hot chocolate was empty, that she looked at him, directly in his eyes, chocolate and gold to ice and grey, and said, "We're leaving today."

He had to remember how to breathe.

She had become part of his routine. She was perhaps the biggest reason he got up in the morning; her, and the breakfast he would learn and the tentative conversation they would have.

He broke gaze. His food was no longer appealing. "When?"

"Soon."

She was still looking at him in that knowing, calculating way of hers. He could feel it.

"Okay."

What would happen to him?

Bill had conducted interrogation after interrogation on command from the Order. Draco had given him everything, as he'd told Thomas he would. He'd given names and places and informants; plans and outlines and whispers that were probably nothing but could be everything.

Thomas had stood by him in most of the interrogations, silent and strong in his presence, a hand on Draco's shoulder. Comfort. Almost—

Friends.

Maybe.

Comrades, perhaps. Brothers-in-arms.

Thomas's quiet support of Draco had done much to convince the Order of his authenticity, he knew. But nothing more had happened, and now his beacon of change was going to be leaving. He knew he wouldn't go with her; it was a fool's dream to think that.

"I talked to McGonagall."

That brought his eyes to hers again. She had never taken them off him. He wondered if she could see his thoughts. He wouldn't be surprised.

"Thank you." He didn't need to know what she had said, or how the elderly witch had responded. It was enough of a kindness from her; everything she had done was a kindness, a gift.

Gifts like no one had ever given him.

Had he once thought that she deserved death? That she was less than him by birthright?

Another fool's thought. One he regretted and recoiled from.

"She'll take you into Hogwarts. You can help her with things."

Things.

Order things.

Things that would most likely bring the downfall of his family.

It was sick, he knew, that the realization made their separation more bearable.

Sick, and he relished in it.

###

The Battle of Hogwarts was terrible and magnificent.

Awful and awe-full.

His Mark burned, again and again, but he had clawed over it so many times that it was malformed and unrecognizable, and the burn was nothing compared to what he'd done to himself.

McGonagall had offered to heal, to remove and soothe, but he'd turned her down. Repentance, he'd explained, and she'd looked at him the same way Granger often had, and nodded her head, and given him a stack of papers to grade.

The growing group of Dumbledore's Army had shunned him at first. Rightfully so, and it made his life difficult, but didn't bother him. It was when he'd healed a victim of the Carrows, unthinking, acting, seeing blood and hearing sobs and remembering—

Screams, blood, crying—

Wood floors and arching ceilings—

When he'd acted unthinkingly, moving towards the sound and reaching blindly and reciting healing incantations he'd been studying and practicing like religion. Because he hadn't helped her. He hadn't helped, and he hadn't known how, and repentance was learning.

Learning to cook, learning to think, learning to heal.

Only when a third year—young, so very, very young—in yellow robes with puffy, salt-swollen eyes threw herself at him, crying and hugging and thanking, had he realized what he'd done.

Only when the hushed silence rang in his ears did he look up and notice he had an audience.

Seamus Finnegan was the one who carefully helped Draco up, seeing and recognizing the dazed, panicked look in those ice and grey eyes.

"Dean said, but I didn't believe him."

Draco blinked at the Scot, at the boy who was known for making things explode when they shouldn't and had renounced Harry Potter when rumors said he was the one who'd brought back the Dark Lord. The boy who was so against Dark Magic he operated off hearsay to avoid it.

"We escaped together."

Escaped, because Draco had been as much a prisoner, in a much different way.

The Scot nodded. "Sit down, Draco."

His Mark burned, and he clawed absently, and Finnegan grabbed his hand and squeezed it, holding and sitting beside him until the burning had stopped.

###

The Battle of Hogwarts was terrible and magnificent.

Awful and awe-full.

His Mark burned, again and again, but he had clawed over it so many times that it was malformed and unrecognizable, and the burn was nothing compared to what he'd done to himself.

He could use that pain now, for information, for fore-warning. He had learned how.

Learned.

Repentance.

It wasn't over, but he was getting there.

It had been Longbottom's idea to drape Draco in robes of grey, with a red and gold sash. Nondescript, but the lack of black broke ties with his own dark, and the red and gold associated him with everyone's Chosen One.

It worked. A small brilliance from the lackluster man that Draco had never expected, but people looked at his clothes instead of his face, and those who aimed for him were ones he was happy to kill.

The lack of black broke ties with his own dark, but he still had the knowledge. Still had the know-how.

Had already used the worst of the worst, and done things that still haunted his nightmares, and each kill he made was a talisman against the horrors of his sleep.

He didn't see Granger until Potter showed up dead.

Hermione Granger.

His hero and his beacon.

The woman he had bowed before, willingly, and learned breakfast from, and who had eyes of hot chocolate and morning sunshine gold.

And when she cried, a fury he had never known burned and tore and raged, and he would have killed his father then, killed everyone he could and happily gone to hell with them, but someone gripped his arm, dug their fingers so tight into his mark.

Thomas stood beside him, Finnegan on his other side.

Thomas. His first savior.

The first to have hope for him, the first to be willing to trust him. They shared an intimacy in that. Draco had shown this man his soul, been so vulnerable and so weak, and Thomas had taken that into his own soul and kept it there, safe and protected.

So, he stayed still, and when his father hissed his name, he snarled back.

His mother was there, too, beside the man he hated more than hate itself. She was frail and sallow and bruised, but when she saw him, and where he stood, and who he was beside, the smallest hints of a smile crinkled at the corners of her eyes.

He would kill everyone he could and happily go to hell with them, and ask the gods the chance to visit his mother in heaven.

But Potter wasn't dead, and Granger stopped crying, and killing no longer held the possibility of self-sacrifice.

As the fight moved into the Great Hall, he watched Granger from the corner of his eye. She was a whirlwind. Anger and power and fearlessness. Magnificence and terrifying beauty.

And when she caught his eye, a simple slip in passing moments, her lips quirked upwards.

Breakfast with her had been quiet and peaceful. Soft.

There was nothing soft about her now, and Draco realized in that moment that there was one other woman he loved.

Hot chocolate and morning sunshine and learning.

Repentance was a wholesome thing, and when Voldemort—because names held power, and he was no longer the Dark Lord to Draco—fell, a simple, quiet thud—

Cheering and crying and laughing—

And some broken slivers of his shattered mind and further destroyed soul carefully stitched themselves back together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Healing was a funny thing.

In the months following, the world was in chaos. But it was the good kind, the recovering kind, and Draco moved into a city apartment with his mother, because country-sides and big manors reminded him of blood and screaming and insults carved into flesh.

Lucius Malfoy was dead, his body left to rot where Draco had slain him in the forest. Rot, or be eaten by the beasts that lived there. Narcissus Black had returned to her maiden name, and to her family; family that was willing to love her and let her serve her repentance as Draco Malfoy had his.

Draco finished his education and applied for a job in the Ministry's law department. There were certain things that needed to change, and Black Enterprises (formerly Malfoy) was in good hands with his mother, leaving him plenty of time and mental clarity.

Thomas worked in a cubicle a floor down, and they ate lunch together sometimes. Draco liked Thomas, he decided, and how the man talked and how he thought. Ideas and brilliance that became words that spilled from his mouth, and Draco enjoyed listening, though it didn't at all match another brilliance he knew.

Hermione Granger was with Potter and Weasley, of course, working to take charge of the world she had saved. He saw her sometimes, and she never said a word, and he didn't either, but her lips always quirked, and one time, he realized that his had, too.

Chaos, but the good, recovering kind.

Draco sat on a bench in the park near the Ministry.

Recovery would take a long time, and be painful. He knew, intimately well.

The scars on his arm, made by his own nails, were proof.

But the sunshine was warm and soft, and his Mark hadn't hurt since that final, fateful day.

All wasn't good, but it would be.

###

When Granger asked for his help on a classified project she was putting to works, he agreed immediately. Only when they made it to her office did he realize they hadn't spoken since that day so many months ago in the kitchen of Bill and Fleur's house.

That didn't matter, though.

There was a comfortable familiarity between them. The kind of people who had seen the worst of each other and knew better, who had faced their own respective hells together, who had—

Made breakfast in early mornings with hot chocolate and sunshine.

Who had escaped.

The project took weeks. Good, long, hard weeks, and Draco learned that the brilliance in her eyes was even more dangerous in her mouth. And the curls of her bushy, brown hair had caramel streaks in certain light.

And she laughed when he made sarcastic comments.

Sarcastic, but not snide—that had taken a while to learn how to do—and her laughter made him want to learn more of what brought it forth.

When the project was over, she invited him to dinner and drinks. He had wanted to agree—the warm fluttering in him almost made him—but he remembered his mother, and the hollow look in her eyes she got when the sun set, and had quietly declined.

Granger had studied him, as she'd once done all those months ago, and just as quietly told him that she enjoyed working with him, and looked forward to the next time.

That night, as he ate dinner with his mother, he slowly, haltingly told of what had transpired at work.

And some of that hollow, haunted look in her eyes melted to something softer.

###

The next time Hermione Granger invited him to a meal, it was for a work function. He wanted to decline, wanted to find a reason to say no, but his mother no longer needed his presence at night to chase away her demons, and dangerously intelligent eyes bore into him, seeking truth and detecting lies.

So, he accepted, with a bowed head and anxiety curling in his stomach.

He had made a point to avoid people. All people. It didn't matter who; he didn't want to interact.

The members of Dumbledore's Army and the Order who worked at the Ministry were friendly with him, often offering good-mornings and waves and smiles. Ginny Weasley had once brought him coffee; more like, she had gotten the wrong coffee and didn't want it, and had been walking past his office and thought he might.

But the action—of giving him something, freely, without hesitation or hidden intent—was the same.

But there were more people here than just those few who had seen him fight, seen him bleed, seen him claw at his own arm, trying to tear off the skin. They remembered him as his father's prodigy. They remembered how many friends had disappeared into Malfoy Manor and never returned home.

So, he stayed distant.

But Granger watched him, and he had no valid excuse, so he agreed, and something more than a small quirk curled her lips upwards.

"Something in your outfit needs to be gold." As bossy as ever, but he didn't mind.

He truly never had.

"Okay." And because he was braver and stronger he asked, "Any other requirements?"

And because she was kind and forgiving, she answered, "Don't forget to bring your wit. I like how it sounds."

She was gone before he could respond, and he realized, in that moment, that he had never stood a chance.

###

Draco had never in even his best dreams imagined he'd return home from work to find his mother and a certain, clever witch enjoying biscuits and wine together, but there they were. He stood in the doorway, watching in a happily entranced daze.

His mother stood first, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. "You never told me you kept in contact with friends from your school."

Because she hadn't been his friend in school, and he regretted that now, but it was clearly a passing lie she'd told his mother. He had his talismans against his nightmares, and he realized that Granger, brilliant woman she was, had given his mother a talisman of her own.

He managed to say, "I don't talk about school much," before Granger stood also.

"Good evening, Draco."

And he forgot how to breathe. It was always Malfoy. Bill called him Draco. Finnegan called him Draco. But Granger—

Always Malfoy.

Except now he was Draco. Now—

He released a shaky breath. "Good evening, Hermione." Her name tasted sweet on his tongue, and he liked how it felt in his mouth. Strong, but also rolling and soft. "You didn't mention you were coming by."

Something twinkled in her eyes then, a sort of mischief that he knew would forever get him in trouble, and he wanted it to. "I wanted to surprise you."

"You succeeded."

His mother watched, ever-aware, almost as brilliant as the pretty woman in front of him. "I'll get you some wine, Draco."

Granger— _Hermione_ stepped closer. "Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?"

"Will you tell me?"

Banter, like in the kitchen during breakfast. Familiar and relieving and exhilarating.

She smirked. "Will you ask?"

His lips curled in a small smile. "What are you doing here, Hermione?" Because he'd use any excuse to say her name now that he knew what it tasted like.

She pursed her lips in thought. "I was in the area and wanted to say hello."

"No other reason?"

She took another step. He stayed still. That's how it would always be, he knew, her stepping and him waiting, patiently. He had done too much to hurt her and not enough to help her, and every boundary set would be ones she put into place.

Every boundary crossed would be led by her.

"Is it unprofessional to say I wanted to see you?"

"Yes," his smile widened slightly.

She was close enough he could smell her now. Hot chocolate and golden sunshine, and something sweet and soothing. "Oh." She paused and tipped her head. "Are we friends, Draco?"

"I think so." But he didn't know, because he didn't know how to have friends. Thomas had taught him a little bit about being friends and having friends, and Ginny had brought him coffee one time, and Hermione invited him to meals and to work functions, and gave him passing smiles.

One of those smiles quirked her lips again, but this time it wasn't passing. "I think so, too. Draco?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Can I kiss you?"

And he just stared. And stared. Because they had shared mornings and breakfasts, and smiles and banter, and anger and healing. And he loved her, but she was—

Hermione Granger.

She wasn't someone who wanted to kiss him, no matter what they'd shared. Except, she did.

So, he nodded, slowly, jerkily. She brought a hand to his face gently, a soothing warmth on his skin, and he leaned into it.

"Draco?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Have you ever been kissed?"

"Yes." Once, by Pansy Parkinson, and another few times, by Astoria Greengrass. Pansy had been sloppy and more curiosity than anything else. Astoria had been gentle and slow, and she'd tasted like mint, and he had liked the kisses they'd shared.

Hermione studied him. "Okay," and stretched up on her toes, and he leaned down, and they met somewhere in the middle.

She was, she was—

Warm, and tasted like the hope that had kept him moving forwards, and when he tentatively cupped the back of her head, she pulled him closer.

Warm hope, hot chocolate and morning sunshine.

Soft.

Footsteps from the kitchen broke them apart, and while he blushed a faint pink, her eyes sparkled with that beautiful mischief. His mother just gave him a glass of wine with a knowing tilt to her head. "So, she's the one who taught you how to cook like a Muggle."

Draco's blush intensified, Narcissa's lips curled in a slow, contented smile, and Hermione laughed.

Bright and happy and wonderful.

And when she met his gaze, she winked, and her smile danced with promises for a future. Hopeful and content and brilliant.

A future where shattered souls and broken minds could finish healing. Where he could kiss her more, and become better at it, and learn more things that made her laugh, and eat dinner with the two women he loved.

A future that, after a life that had crushed and destroyed him, was soft.


End file.
